


In the Shadow of the King

by Anonymous



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hallucinations, Haunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, Poins hates the French, Power Imbalance, kicking historical accuracy in the teeth, less-terminal-than-expected illness, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>In the year of our Lord 1422, in the Château de Vincennes near Paris, France, the King was dying.</p>
  <p>He knew it, though his lords and physicians were loathe to say as much. He knew it from the ache of his withering muscles; the roiling, burning, stabbing in his gut; the slow, dry burn of his fever; the stench of death that filled the room.</p>
  <p>Furthermore, Bardolph had told him so.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the year of our Lord 1422, in the Château de Vincennes near Paris, France, the King was dying.

He knew it, though his lords and physicians were loathe to say as much. He knew it from the ache of his withering muscles; the roiling, burning, stabbing in his gut; the slow, dry burn of his fever; the stench of death that filled the room.

Furthermore, Bardolph had told him so.

Bardolph, who hung from his neck in the corner of the chamber, his blushing, bloated face twisted as he beckoned for the King to follow him.

"Not yet," the King whispered through lips so dry they bled with every motion, speaking too softly for his attendants to take notice. "No, faith, my old friend, not yet."

Bardolph frowned and snarled, but argued no more. That position was taken up by the King's father, who marched up and down the length of the chamber, twitching and frothing in between speeches berating the King for his ill-spent youth and all its incumbent failures. In response, the King could do little more than murmur desperate apologies, which his father duly ignored.

Then came all the dead of Harfleur and Agincourt and countless battles before and since. They filled the room standing, those that could stand, and those that could not stand crawled over each other on their bloodied stumps. All looked on the King, some with eyesockets hollowed by arrows or decay, and cried out in voices both French and English. They cursed his name and his cause, lamented the loss of their own lives and what such a loss would mean for the mothers, wives, and children left behind. They screamed from the pain of the wounds that had killed them and groaned with the agony of their forsaken hopes. The King, too weak to bring his hands up to block his ears, forgot the sound of silence as the hours passed and the horde shuffled and moaned and wept around him. His attendants stepped over them and seemingly cared not for their King's discomfort.

The King fell into sleep at a point he could not quite recall––not that this stopped the cacophony of the horde from reaching his ears. But when he awoke, they were gone. There was but one figure now, an enormously fat man with a snow-white beard and eyes brimming with anguish. He gazed upon the King with a look of longing and despair, and his lower lip trembled.

"Hal?" said Falstaff. 

The King's fevered veins ran cold with dread. Dry tongue licked cracked lips, but he could find no words that would dismiss the apparition.

"No abuse, Hal," Falstaff went on, his voice taking on a wavering quality that threatened to break at any moment. He shuffled towards the King's bed.

The King glanced desperately around the room, his eyes rolling in his head as he sought out any form of aid or escape. It seemed his attendants had left him to face this wretched shade alone. He tried to scream, but it died in his parched throat.

"My sweet boy," whimpered Falstaff. "My royal Hal!"

He reached for the King, who struggled with his exhausted limbs to propel himself away from the pathetic creature. His heart was the only muscle with any strength remaining, and it hammered against his ribs with such panicked speed that, as Falstaff's clammy hand grabbed his wrist, the King fainted dead away.

When the King opened his eyes again, the only light in the room came from the embers glowing in the fireplace and the pale-faced moon gleaming softly through the window. No noise but the shuffling of a single, unknown figure moving about the chamber. Not Falstaff, too tall and too slender for Falstaff. Silver moonlight failed to reach their face, and it remained in the shadow cast by the hood of their cloak. The King twitched away in fear as they approached. The figure paused.

"Who art thou," the King demanded.

The figure stepped forward more slowly, and retrieved a goblet from the table at the King's bedside, filling it with unknown liquid from a waterskin. Goblet in one hand, they reached out with the other towards the King's head, and the King jerked away. Again, the figure backed off.

"Peace," they whispered–– _he_ whispered, for it was a man's voice. Slowly he lifted his hand to the edge of his hood and drew it back. There was not enough light to fully illuminate his features, but...

"Ned?" muttered the King, brow knit in confusion. 'Til now, all his tormenters had been dead. He'd heard no such news of Edward Poins, heard nothing of him since his own coronation. Perhaps he'd died in anonymity, a sickness or tavern brawl so violent that it left his corpse unrecognizable. Though if that were the case, the King thought it might have left a mark on the figure who stood before him now.

The figure nodded and smiled a familiar, pursed-lipped smirk. Ned Poins it was, then. The King's heart clenched in anticipation of what terrible accusations might run from that once-loved mouth, and he shut his eyes against the phantom.

"Can you drink?"

The King blinked his eyes open again and fixed Ned with a puzzled look.

"Can you drink?" Ned repeated, holding forth the goblet.

The King frowned first at Ned, then at the goblet, then at Ned again.

"Is it poison?" he asked.

"No," said Ned.

The King wondered what purpose this unearthly visit could possibly serve. If the specter of Poins meant to lure the King into his grave, then poison would be a good method. But would a supernatural fiend require poison in the first place? Of course, if it weren't poison, then why would Ned be offering it? Nothing about this visitation made any sense at all, and the King was in enough pain without throwing a headache on top of it.

It was that last line of reasoning that led the King to give up and accept the goblet. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but his arms would barely move in response to his wishes. Ned reached for his head again, and the King let him tip it forward to reach the goblet. Some unknown liquid, sweet and cool, touched his lips, and the King succumbed to instinct, drinking it down greedily. All too soon, Ned pulled the goblet away.

"Slowly, Your Majesty," he said, and the honorific sounded so strange in his voice. "It wouldn't do to have you bringing it all back up again."

The King would have argued, but Ned tipped the goblet back to him again, and sipping at the elixir seemed a better use of his mouth.

Once the goblet had been drained, the King let his eyes fall shut, exhausted even by the simple act of drinking. Then there was the soothing sensation of something cold and wet pressed against his forehead; the King squinted one eye open just enough to confirm his suspicion that Ned was mopping his brow. Ned's hand slipped behind the King's head again, and lifted it up to clean the stale sweat from the back of his neck as well. The King marveled at the spirit's boldness; the King hadn't been touched so intimately by any other than his wife since... well, since Ned, and here was Ned again. The King supposed it fitting. He relaxed into Ned's ministrations, satisfied for now that he was not about to be murdered by the oddly benevolent ghost of his old friend, and let himself fall back into sleep.

The King awoke to daylight and the murmurings and mutterings of his lords and servants, who had regathered around his bed while he slept. Ned was gone, replaced by Doll Tearsheet, who sat on the floor and sobbed so hard it was a wonder Exeter and Westmoreland couldn't hear her. Eventually the King had enough of her wailing, and, fueled by his frustration, sat up in bed and shouted at her to leave. She stayed, but his lords departed with haste. The King grit his teeth against the sound of her cries and watched her fade away with the last of the sun's rays as it set.

That night, Ned appeared again, creeping around like the thief he was in life, though rather than removing items he was installing them. A loaf of bread joined the goblet by the bedside. Once again the King drank, more than he had the night before.

Then Ned drew a knife from his belt, and for an instant the King was sure Ned meant to carve his royal heart from his chest. Instead, Ned used the knife to cut a chunk from the bread loaf and held it out to the King. The King smothered his feelings of foolishness with renewed suspicion. The draught had not been poisoned, but perhaps the bread...?

"Thou first," he said, lifting his chin at Ned's offering.

Ned raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and popped the bit of bread into his own mouth, chewing and swallowing with ease.

As he chewed, the King looked at the knife in Ned's hand, then to the loaf of bread, and found his own pained stomach quaking with mirth.

"And what, pray tell, is so amusing?" said Ned.

"Bread-chipper," the King choked out between stifled laughs.

Ned blinked confusedly, then rolled his eyes. "Fear not, Your Majesty. 'Tis certain your wit will return with your health."

The King would have served him a scathing retort, but found he had not the spirit for it. He settled for continuing to chuckle quietly to himself as Ned cut another piece of bread. The King, his arms aching after the exertion of shouting at Doll earlier that day, allowed himself to be hand-fed, morsel by infinitesimal morsel, until the pain of his sickness overcame the pain of his hunger and he turned his face away. Ned put down the bread and picked up the cloth and bowl once more, soothing the King back into sleep and vanishing before he awoke.

That morning, the King realized his error in having Ned taste his food for him. If Ned were already deceased, then no amount of poison could possibly harm him. Then again, could most spirits partake of food and drink? The King wasn't sure. His suspicion grew as he reflected on the past two nights. 

This time as the sun set, the King tried to stay awake so he might bear witness to Ned's appearance. John of Bedford, who'd stayed by his Majesty's side, urged him to sleep. The King refused, though he accepted the water Bedford offered. Bedford touched only the goblet, leaving the King to lift his own head from the pillow. The moon crested the horizon and rose higher still into the crisp black of the night sky, and the King's dry eyes burned from the effort of keeping them open, but still Ned did not appear. 

The sun rose again, and the King's illness, retreated somewhat in these past two days, returned full force. It was not enough that the King should be so humiliated by his body's failings, to wallow in his own refuse; there was another visitation, as well. Hotspur appeared at the foot of the King's bed. Dried blood crusted his lips, while fresher stuff oozed from the wound the King had put in his side. He said nothing, simply stood and stared as the King's retainers rushed around him, helpless to prevent the resurgence of sickness. 

The King faded in and out of consciousness, but still Hotspur remained. The King ordered him away, and when that failed to work (even as his retainers were sent scurrying), set his jaw and stared back at the silent phantom. But he had not the strength for a battle of wills. The King gave up and let his eyes fall shut, then opened them some indeterminate period of time later to find Hotspur replaced by Ned.

Upon catching the King's eye, Ned shook his head and began to move about the room. He tossed old water from pitcher and bowl and replaced it with his own waterskins' stores, having brought along at least two that the King could see. He offered the King a fresh goblet of sweet water, which the King would have gulped down if Ned did not ration it out sip by sip, mindful of the King's weak stomach. Once more, sweat and worse was cleaned from the King's skin, and this time soiled bedclothes were taken away to be stashed in a cupboard in one of the walls and replaced with fresh ones, tucked around the King's tired body with unusual tenderness. The King asked for bread, but Ned gave him only more water. All throughout, Ned was as silent as Hotspur had been, barely-suppressed rage visible in the clenching of his jaw.

"Your pardon," said the King, by now accustomed to placating his phantoms with apologies.

Ned's anger abated with a snort. "As though we never had to clean up worse in Eastcheap. Besides, this is good filth, this is. Haven't you heard? It belongs to the King."

The King managed a weak laugh at that.

"We have noticed thy visitations occur only when our retainers are not present," said the King the next night. "Would we be correct in assuming that, should we desire to see thee more often, our retainers should be so often sent away?"

"'Twould make matters easier," said Ned. "Else I should have to pay the guards to create a distraction, and then of course Your Majesty must execute them for succumbing to bribery. Seems a pity and a waste, both of my coin and of their lives."

The King's eyes narrowed. "And how art thou gaining entrance to our chambers, if not by lightening your own purse and adding to the clanking of our guard?"

Ned laughed. "Why, by making myself immaterial and passing through the very stone of the walls. 'Tis an easy enough trick for a phantom so accomplished as myself."

By now, the King was certain Ned was no phantom at all, but felt it might be more amusing to catch him in the lie rather than force a confession from the culprit's lips.

And so the pattern continued, the King sleeping as much as he could manage by day and sending all lords and servants from his side by nightfall. Yet Ned would never appear while the King was awake. Twice the King had attempted to feign sleep, so that he might see precisely how Ned approached, only for the feigned sleep to become all too real. Regardless, he looked forward to waking to see Ned by his side, phantom or no.

A fortnight later, the King was well enough for regular meals, daring beef broth as well as bread and water. He could sit up easily, though standing required some aid, and his legs would not yet carry him further than the confines of the castle. Still, what need had he of legs that could walk when he rode a horse across the battlefield?

The King relished his newfound health, and when Ned once again appeared by his bedside, the King informed him of his plans to ride on to Cosne-sur-Loire within the next few days. Ned's reply took the form of a slight frown, a clenching of his jaw, and the silent continuation of his business about the room.

"Thou thinkst I do wrong," said the King.

Ned focused his attentions on refilling the water jug by the King's bedside as he replied, "I think the thoughts of a mere soldier of fortune, and I doubt those do much to inform the opinion of Your Majesty."

"And what wouldst thou do in my place?" said the King.

Ned looked the King in the eye then, for a moment, before shrugging and busying himself straightening the edge of the King's blankets.

"Feign sickness," said Ned, "until I were more fully and surely recovered."

The King frowned. "And have our lords think us cowardly and infirm not only in body but in mind."

"They've stood by Your Grace these long months," said Ned. "Another week should not sever their loyalties."

"What treachery art thou planning," said the King, "that thou must have thy King remain abed for it to succeed?"

For the most infinitesimal moment, Ned's face betrayed a wounding to his heart. Then it hardened, and Ned looked upon the King with a set jaw and unblinking eyes.

"I am planning for my King to live, to conquer France, to return home a victor and meet his new son and heir," he said, "rather than die in a pool of his own filth."

This last was not so much said as bitterly spat.

The King stared in silence at his old friend, whose hands had formed fists that trembled with rage during the course of his small speech. But before the King could reprimand him, Ned's hands relaxed and he blanched of his own accord, his pallor turning pale as the ghost he was supposed to be. His mouth opened, some small syllable left his lips, perhaps the beginnings of an apology. His gaze faltered and fell the ground, and he kept it there as he finally found words.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. 'Twas not my place to speak so freely."

The King forgave him almost immediately in his heart, but kept his face like stone and his tongue still as the seconds passed. Ned dared a glance up with his eyes while his head remained bowed, awaiting judgement.

"You have our pardon," the King said at last.

Ned's sigh of relief was not so much heard as seen in the slight relaxing of his shoulders. For the rest of the night, the King watched him tread about the room with utmost care, saying nothing, more shade-like than any of the other spirits that had haunted the King these past weeks.

The next night, Ned did not appear. Nor the night after that, though the King sent his lords away with the excuse that he required privacy for prayer.

The King waited a third night, and on the dawn of the fourth day, he rose from his bed, donned his armor, saddled his horse, and rode from the castle, eliciting great cheers of joy from his men. He responded to their celebratory shouts with a smile and wave, even as his eyes searched the multitude for a familiar smirk. But such a face was not present among his soldiers.

Cosne-sur-Loire fell before the King's forces within the month, and the King had barely begun to plan the next stage of his conquest when news came from Paris: Charles VI was dead.

The King turned his army around and rushed towards Paris, lest the disinherited Dauphin attempt to retake the city in the King's absence and steal the crown for himself. But the King's horses and men were swift, and the Paris they reached was under Anglo-Burgundian control. The King underwent his second coronation without delay, and so Henry V became King of both France and England.

(The Dauphin crowned himself a few days later, in Bourges, but only the Armagnacs paid him any mind.)

The coronation carousing was cut short as more news came from England. Some of the English lords left behind had grown discontent, thinking their King had spent too long abroad in foreign wars and neglected domestic policy. The fools had gone North to ally themselves with what Scotsmen hadn't already thrown their lot in with the Armagnacs in France. The King boarded the _Grace Dieu_ and headed home to reclaim his England.


	2. Chapter 2

France had been mistake, thought Ned. A well-reasoned and honest mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.

England made too dangerous a home for a former friend of Prince Hal, if the fates of Falstaff et all were any warning. France was the land of banished men, of the old King Henry IV himself once upon a time; it seemed a good enough place for one such as Ned. And so to France he ran, scant days before Prince Hal became King Henry V.

Halfway between Normandy and Paris, Ned, like so many Englishmen before him, suffered his own bout of bloody flux. His health was restored not by a physician or barber-surgeon but by a common whore, who'd learned it listening to the post-coital ramblings of an ex-crusader, who'd learned it from a Moorish doctor, who'd learned it through God only knew what means.

Against all odds, this folk remedy cured Ned, and he travelled on, arriving in Paris to find the city torn asunder by civil war. The streets didn't run red with rivers of blood from the Burgundian-Armagnac fighting, but it was a near thing.

Forced to pick a side, Ned chose the Burgundians over the Armagnacs; the sigil of a carpenter's plane, to shave down the Armagnac's wooden club badge, struck him as clever enough to warrant his loyalties. He avoided taking part in most of the skirmishes personally, but tempers ran high when their owners were deep in their cups and if Ned's dagger found a sheath in an Armagnac's spine, so be it. His new friends would hardly complain. Some of them jokingly accused him of favoring the Burgundian side out of leftover patriotism, due to the Burgundian's rumored on-and-off alliance with the English. Ned vehemently denied this, sometimes with a brandished blade and a threat of bloodshed, but allowed himself to be placated by apologies that came in the form of additional cups of wine.

Then King Henry V arrived on the shores of France, and there was Harfleur and Agincourt. Ned knew he should flee if the King drew closer to Paris, but he put it from his mind and stubbornly planted himself more firmly in his favorite taverns.

Years passed; the King acquired a queen and the promise of a second crown and retreated across the channel to England, his thirst for power and bloodshed apparently sated. Ned silently and perhaps somewhat bitterly toasted his old friend's success, prayed he'd stay away and leave Ned to his self-imposed banishment. 

The King did not oblige.

When the King returned, it was with the addition of a more secure, more official alliance with the Burgundians, and a bigger army.

While his claim to the French crown was supported by the French King, Charles VI, there was still the small problem of the Dauphin he'd displaced in the process. Queen Isabeau claimed the Dauphin was a bastard, the Armagnacs claimed the Dauphin as their new leader, and so Ned's King had to claim the rest of France the hard way. He seemed to enjoy it, as far as Ned could tell from a distance, and from his memories of the Prince the King had been.

Then the call went out for all good Burgundians to join the cause of putting down the Dauphin once and for all, and Ned found himself as a soldier-for-hire in his King's army, under the name Edmond de Sanglier. Being so lowly ranked, he found it easy to stay out of the way of the English and out of the sight of his King. He was not so bold in battle as to attract anyone's attention, and so all went swimmingly until the siege of Meaux.

Few of the fighting men realized the King had taken ill over the course of the siege, but as the months wore on the rumors slowly trickled down through the ranks. The lords did their level best to contain this treacherous talk, doubtless believing the news (that the King was succumbing to the same bloody flux that plagued the bowels of even the lowest footsoldier) would be detrimental to morale. But on the tenth of August, when the King collapsed entirely and had to be carried up to the castle at Vincennes, no force in heaven or earth could stop the wagging of tongues. The news was out; the King was sick, and there were few men-at-arms who did not find themselves on their knees in French mud, hands clasped before them, praying for his recovery.

Ned was not among them. Preferring mortal action to divine intervention, he left the others to their prayers and went to confirm the news of the King's illness for himself. It hardly seemed possible that Henry V could die abed rather than in battle.

Gaining entrance to the castle certainly hadn't been easy. For days he watched the castle's activity from across the field, quizzed those who had entered it on what lay within. Several times he walked boldly in to the courtyard on some pretend errand or other. Nails for a horse's shoe, whetstone for a sword... there were a hundred things he could claim to be sent to fetch by a fellow soldier. The trick was acting as though one belonged; not haughty, simply casual. At last, one night, he made his way up through the castle walls and into the keep itself, where his King lay dying.

Ned had rationalized the first visit as his last. After all, what would it hurt to gaze upon his King once more before he left this world for the next? But upon seeing how the King was afflicted, how badly the physicians were botching their job, how little comfort the King received from lord and layman alike...

Ned tried to tell himself the King deserved no less for his own betrayals, but some damned heartstring or other had been plucked and Ned found himself buying a pot from one soldier and stealing sugar from another and boiling water over what he claimed to be a cooking fire before pouring the whole mess into his waterskin and returning to the castle.

Each night, he climbed walls and slipped in and out of windows, darted down hallways, up over roofs, cursing the moon that waxed when he needed it to wane and deprive the guards of sight beyond their torches. He took a different route every night, circuitous yet swift, always leading to his King's side.

At first, the King's fevered state served as a cover for Ned's visits. Ned thought he would have to stay gone for good once the King started to recover, but the King encouraged him, and the one time Ned had failed to appear, the lords undid all his hard work fighting the flux and Ned had to begin anew. So Ned kept returning, and even that would have been fine if Ned had been able to keep his damned mouth shut. "Die in his own filth," indeed.

He'd fled that very night, not arrogant enough to think saving the King's life would be enough to save his own.

_La Bougie Flatteur_ was a hole in the wall no respectable Englishman would deign to lay eyes on, much less enter in search of Edward Poins. This, among other features, made it Ned's favorite tavern. He staggered through its door upon his arrival in Paris from Vincennes and hadn't left since.

"You are not going back to England?" said a fellow patron to him one evening, a man who came around often enough to know Ned was English. (The knowledge was not necessarily very difficult to acquire; Ned's accent typically being enough to tip off most men.)

Ned considered answering the inquiry with a fist to the man's nose or a dagger to his cheek, but he was not yet too deep in his cups to keep his temper in check.

"No, Jacques," he said at last. He called every man in the tavern Jacques. He figured it had to be the Christian name of at least one of them, and besides, they were all willing enough to answer to it. Save the barmaid, whom Ned had dubbed Francis.

"Your King is going," said Jacques. Not the first Jacques. A different Jacques. Probably. It was difficult to tell, in the low light of the tavern.

"My King?" said Ned. "Why not thy King?" He sat up straight and glared at the man, one hand on the hilt of his dagger. "Art thou an Armagnac?"

"No," the second Jacques replied quickly; evidently he'd heard of Ned's reputation. "Only, he was King of England before he was King of France, and you were English before you were French, and so he is your King before he is any of ours, yes?"

Ned didn't quite follow the logic; he suspected one might have to be French to do so.

"Fret not," said the first Jacques. "You will not be the only Englishman left in France. Most are staying."

"I'faith, I cannot imagine why," said Ned, turning his attention back to his wine.

"The Scots are leaving," said the second Jacques.

Ned frowned as he pondered this new information. France full of English. England full of Scots. And his King. One King minus the English plus a horde of Scots rolling home...

"Why are the Scots leaving France?" he asked.

The second Jacques shrugged. "They have had enough of losing? Maybe if they go home, they can win."

"But the English are staying," said Ned.

"Save their King, and some small force," said a Jacques.

"How many?" Ned asked.

One of the Jacques quoted him a figure. Ned attempted to solve the arithmetic puzzle it presented him, his finger tracing lopsided numerals onto the table's rough surface.

_Not enough_ , whispered the sober part of Ned's brain, and Ned found himself forced to agree with that assessment. Whatever the exact number, the King's forces in England wouldn't be enough to put down both Scottish armies at once, especially when all rumors available to Ned indicated that his King was unaware of the second Scottish force coming home from France.

The King. Not his King. Because he was banished, unofficially speaking, and really oughtn't be in France anymore now that it was part of England. He should head further south, run through the Armagnac territories and down into Spain. He knew French and Latin, he could learn Spanish.

With these new travel plans in mind, Ned stood up from the table, draining the last of the cheap wine from his cup. Even as tipsy as he was, acquiring travel funds by lifting the purses of both Jacques was despairingly easy.

Less easy was explaining to himself how he came to be on a ship bound for England rather than a horse to Spain.


	3. Chapter 3

They had faced worse odds at Agincourt. 

That is what the King told his men, and what he told himself, though he knew it to be a stretching of the truth. While the rebel and Scottish forces combined only outnumbered the King's men two-to-one, rather than the ten-to-one they had defeated in France, the battlefield in England was wildly divergent from what it had been at Agincourt. Here there was no newly-ploughed, rain-soaked mud to suck down enemy knights in heavy armor; there was no narrow field hemmed in by dense woodland to funnel the enemy forces into the English longbowmen's line of fire. Here there was a wide open plain, kept dry by a winter's chill too cold to allow a single flake of snow to fall. 

Even so, the battle had not begun so badly. In the initial fight, the King had faced off against one mass of Scots to the north. A volley of arrows from his longbowmen seemed to do good work in reducing the enemies' numbers, and so the King charged his knights forth to deal with the rest. The two forces clashed in the middle of the field, and while blood was spilt on both sides, the conflict was not unwinnable. 

It was then that a second contingent of Scots came onto the battlefield from the south. 

Unbeknownst to the King, Armagnac deserters from France had crossed the English Channel behind him and followed him north even as their countrymen rushed south to their aid. The King's forces would shortly be caught between twin armies. 

Surely some of his soldiers must have suspected the truth of their predicament; to their credit, not one of them tried to flee. But it was not a question of courage, it was a question of numbers, and this time, the terrain offered no advantage. 

The King was doomed. 

There was a pang of regret in his heart as he thought of his infant heir, recalled the babe's smallness, the little fingers that wrapped around his own mere hours prior to his second coronation, the one chance he'd had to see his wife and son before returning to England. He'd hoped to show young Harry his father's homeland, see him grow from babe to child to man, watch him learn archery and horseback riding and teach him how to wield both sword and crown. To apologize for the burden he'd thrust on an unwilling innocent, and prepare him for the loss of self that becoming King would mean for him. 

The King felt tears prick his eyes and blinked them back in anger. God's blood, he would not die a-weeping. His affairs were in order; he'd seen to that at Vincennes. His brother, John of Bedford, left behind in France, would rule as his son's regent. His beautiful wife, mother to a King, would be cared for. England would survive without him, as impossible as the thought seemed. 

He looked to his officers––Westmoreland and good Captain Fluellen among them––and saw the same solemn determination on their faces as the Scots roared on all sides and rushed in. 

Within minutes, if his predictions held true, the King would face the demons he'd evaded at Vincennes. Loathe as he was to admit it, the thought came with a tinge of fear. He banished it with a wordless roar of his own and raised his sword high, spurring his steed on to meet the wall of Scots approaching from the south. 

Armies clashed, men fell, many of them under the King's blade. He survived to see a second lull in the fighting. It was then that Westmoreland drew his steed alongside his King's and bid him look to the western horizon. A third force of Scottish allies approached on foot, silhouetted by the afternoon sun. To the King, it mattered not. Two-to-one or three-to-one, the day was lost. All that remained was to make a brave end of it, something that would be spoken of with wonder even by his murderers. 

"Look, Your Majesty!" Westmoreland cried again. The King turned his horse in irritation; gazing more intently on his imminent demise would not alter fate. 

Yet as he did so, he noticed something odd. The newcomers ignored any and all the King's men they crossed, running past them headlong into the Scottish forces. 

And began to cut them down. 

The King squinted against the sun. These were no soldiers; these were farmers and tradesmen, most armed with pitchforks and scythes. The scythes in particular were proving very useful for hooking around the bellies of mounted Scottish lords and pulling them down out of their saddles so they could be torn apart by the furious peasants, who screamed oaths to God and King and country. While their display was admittedly impressive, the King knew it wouldn't last long. The reinforcements were barely armed and completely unarmored. Still, they were numerous. 

A terrible, traitorous flicker of hope returned to the King's heart. He stopped strategizing his own death and began to think of new tactics that would use this sudden increase in troops to its full advantage. The King came alive again, shouted orders to his remaining men and charged forward to join the newcomers in flanking the Scottish rebels. Their strike was decisive, bloody, and glorious. 

An unfortunate result of the peasants' arrival on the field, apart from the many casualties they suffered, was that their deaths left their weapons unattended. One unhorsed Scot, believing only a King's steed would serve to replace his own, grabbed an abandoned scythe and worked together with a few comrades to pull the King from his saddle. The King fought them all the way down, killing one and wounding another. By the time he stood on the ground, he faced but one man. 

And the horse. 

His horse, riderless in battle and bereft of command, reared in panic. He barely dived out of its reach as its hooves struck the frozen earth. This dive put him in a sorry position relative to any Scots brave or foolish enough to have approached the horse. He scrambled to get his legs back under him as the Scots rained blows down. His horse's shrieks rang in his ears as it thundered off. Nearly as loud were the cries of despair from his men who could not come to their King's aid. 

So this was how it would end, the King thought to himself as he blocked an axe blade from burying itself in his face. Perhaps the battle would be won without him. 

A truly vile stream of sacrilegious profanity sounded in the air above him. The Scot who'd swung the axe fell over quite suddenly, and in his place stood a furious dark-haired Englishman. His only armor was a loose mail shirt hurriedly thrown over his chest, and his mace, newly caked with hair and blood, had recently made contact with the back of the Scot's head. 

Before the King could do else but watch, the Englishman slew a second Scot and was swearing by the thumbs of any Saint who'd listen that he would bloody well do the same to anyone who'd dare come near his King. 

The King lurched to his feet, fighting the weight of his armor all the way, and gaped. The stranger's face was streaked with blood and twisted in an expression of frothing rage, but there was something familiar about that particular snarl. 

"Poins?" 

The King hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud, much less loud enough to be heard over the din of battle. But his rescuer spun to face him and confirmed what he suspected. 

"How––" the King began. 

"Your Majesty!" cried Westmoreland, distracting the King with his approach on horseback, the King's own steed in tow beside him. The King turned to accept the reins offered. By the time he'd swung back into his saddle and looked to the battlefield once more, Poins was nowhere to be seen. The King would have thought he'd imagined the whole encounter if there were not two dead Scots on the ground before him with mace-wounds where their skulls used to be. 

More pressing matters were at hand. The King put the mystery from his mind. Rallying his troops once more, he routed the southern contingent of Scots from the field. The northernmost Scots, witnessing the fury of the King's reinforcements, had already begun their retreat. The King's forces captured or killed most of them before the battle's end. All told, a decisive if unexpected victory. 

To the King's surprise (and more than a little relief), most men of note had come through unscathed. It was the common reinforcements who made up the bulk of the casualties on the English side. The King ordered the surviving peasants rounded up and brought before him; partly to thank them for their service, and partly to answer his burning questions surrounding their sudden appearance. 

As Captain Fluellen arrived with the six living men, the King searched their faces. Though one seemed familiar, none were Poins, and an anxious gnawing began to make itself known in the King's gut. He ignored it for the moment and addressed them all. 

"Who led you here?" he asked them, once his victory speech was at an end. 

The half-dozen common men kneeling before him looked to each other, confused. (He'd given them permission to stand, but not one of them dared to.) 

"You, m'lord," one of them mumbled. 

"The proper term of address is 'Your Grace,'" said Westmoreland, who stood by the King's right hand. "Or 'Your Majesty.'" 

Despite Westmoreland's gentle tone, the peasant who'd spoken looked pale with fear. The King favored him with a reassuring smile. It seemed to work, as the peasant spoke on. 

"'Twas Your Majesty who led us," said the peasant. 

"All hail King Henry!" cried the more familiar man, emboldened by the King's previous speech and drunk on either victory or more potent spirits; possibly both. His cheer was hurriedly taken up by his fellows. The King silenced them with a small wave of his arm. 

"Who was it led you to the battle?" said the King, attempting to clarify his earlier inquiry. "Who mustered you from your homes to fight for your King?" 

The peasants hesitated. 

"A man," one of them ventured. 

The King prayed for patience. 

"From Eastcheap!" offered the same man who'd led the cheer moments before. "One of the fellows who used to run with ol' Jack. Twitchy lad." 

"To the point, Ancient Pistol!" barked Fluellen. The King blinked in surprise. He hadn't recognized the man until now. 

"I beg Your Grace's pardon," Pistol mumbled. "His name escapes me... Ponds, it might've been? Or was it Poirer?" 

The King kept his eyes from widening with shock, but barely. It took a greater surge of willpower than he had expected to keep from cuffing the Ancient on the ear and correcting his pronunciation. 

"...Poins, that's it!" said Pistol at last. 

"And where is this man now?" said the King, careful to keep his tone level. 

Pistol opened his mouth to answer, hesitated, then shrugged. "I know not, Your Majesty." 

"Doth any man of your company," said the King, lifting his chin and letting his voice carry with a royal weight, "know the current location of this Poins? Who hath held him most recently in his sight?" 

A silent moment, and then–– 

"I, Your Majesty," said one peasant hesitantly. "I saw him take a blow from a Scottish lord and stumble off the field." 

The King's heart made an unpleasant motion in his breast. On his face, only the slight raising of his brow showed. 

"When was this?" he said. 

"Not long afore the action ended, Your Grace." 

The King nodded once in thought (the peasant gave a small sigh of relief at this motion) then turned to his officers. 

"Find this man Poins," he ordered, "and bring him before us." 

"Your Grace," Westmoreland cut in gently, "he may yet be counted among the common dead." 

The King found himself fighting the sudden urge to berate Westmoreland, both for calling Poins a common man and for suggesting he might not have survived the battle. 

"Be that as it may," the King said instead, "we would have him found."


End file.
